


isn't it scarier to kill with only your bare hands?

by kingsocean



Category: Final Fantasy Type-0
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 20:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17352152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsocean/pseuds/kingsocean
Summary: Eight is sick with an unknown illness and his mom takes care of him.





	isn't it scarier to kill with only your bare hands?

**Author's Note:**

> A disclaimer: I have no idea what I'm doing. I haven't actually played Type-0 so writing this was amusing as I had to base it on what little I knew and a whole lot of research.

 

“I had to mark Eight absent today.” Kurasame handed the Akademia ledger to Arecia after saying so.

Arecia opened the ledger, noticing the x mark by Eight’s name after a row of checkmarks. “I see.” She shut the book, and took the ledger under her arm. She said nothing more, so Kurasame took that as a sign to speak up.

“This is the first time he has been absent.” Kurasame added.

“Indeed.” She agreed, and didn’t say anymore.

“The other students say he’s sick.” Kurasame explained. “Deuce said a simple spell didn’t cure him of anything. He’s supposedly been acting out of place, as of late.”

“Mhm.” Arecia gave a compassionate smile, but didn’t actually say anything else. She couldn’t see half of Kurasame’s face, but his eyebrows seem to express enough of a frustrated concern, so finally she asks. “Are you going to take him to a hospital?”

“… Nothing is wrong with him.” Kurasame concluded.

“What makes you say that?”

“Deuce told him to sit in the garden for some air. I went to see him. He has no fever, no cough, he’s not bleeding anywhere, he’s not in pain…” A small pause. “Still… something seemed off about him.”

“So what are you asking?” Arecia asked.

“… I think… perhaps you should pay him a visit.” Kurasame concluded. “He seemed like he wanted to see you.”

“Then, perhaps you could have just said, ‘Eight wants to see you?’” Arecia remarked.

“Maybe I’m not making it clear that… something seemed off. … he also didn’t ask for you.” Kurasame remarked. “He apologized to me, and told me not to bother you, or anyone else, he didn’t mean to disturb any of the peace – but if that was true, he would’ve come to class wouldn’t he?”

“Well, that’s simple.” Arecia remarked. “Somethings on his mind.”

“I suppose.” Kurasame shrugged. “It’s still just unlike him to skip class… this is the first time he’s ever done so, according to the ledger.”

“A sickness of the mind is worse than any bodily affliction.” She assured. “Go on, I’ll sort this and I’ll see Eight. You said Deuce put him in the garden?”

“… Well, she did, but he’s sitting in the cemetery now.”

“… I see.” Arecia gave a nod of her head. “Anything else to report?”

“No ma’am.”

“Dismissed.” She gestured away, and watched Kurasame walk off for a long while before she turned on her foot, and walked off towards Classroom Zero.

* * *

 

Eight was laying on an outdoor chaise lounge, it had an umbrella tied to the back of it, and he was wrapped in a blanket, so it seemed the other students had been nice enough to try and take care of him. The sky was sunny, the breeze was calm and kind, enough to tousle his short brown hair. His eyes looked dull, he was staring out into the sky, under the shade of the umbrella, and his gaze seemed strange, foggy and listless. He hardly seemed conscious.

Arecia stepped over the dirt path and walked over to the patch of grass that he was sitting in. It was a clear patch of grass, and he was facing the graves, looking at them, but for the most part he just seemed to be looking off into the distance at nothing. Her footfall in the grass was noticed, she could see Eight twitch his shoulders, but it took him a good few seconds to finally turn his head.

His clouded expression turns an expression warmer, he smiles calmly. “Mom.” He chirps with a good tone, and Arecia smiled in response. He unfurled himself from the blanket, albeit slowly, and Arecia could tell that someone like Eight was not usually this slow and methodical about his movements. If anything, Eight seemed like the fastest of everyone. His lethargic movement made him seem seriously ill.

Arecia bent at the back, leaning forward. “Have space for two?”

Eight nodded and sat up, he pulled the blanket away, and swung his legs off the chair and patted the end for Arecia to sit down. She did just that.

“Kurasame said you were absent in class today.” She started, and put the tips of her gloved fingers together, her head turned to look at Eight.

Eight knit his brows, and frowned a little. “… I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

Eight continued that expression, a frown on his face, his eyebrows knit, a confused expression as he now stared down at the grass and his shoes. “… I don’t know.” He admitted. “I don’t feel good.”

Arecia pulled off her left glove, taking it in her right hand, and reached out, touching the top of Eight’s forehead. At that, Eight immediately shut his eyes, and his shoulder’s slumped, and Arecia raised her brow as she watched him lean into her touch. She pulled her hand away.

“You don’t have a fever.” She concluded.

Eight shook his head.

“Why don’t you feel good?” She asked. Eight just stares at the ground, his hands come out from under the blankets, and he wrings them together. Arecia noticed there was little bandages wrapped around his knuckles and thumbs, and the back of his hands, they had moogle prints, and one had a chocobo cartoon printed on it. “… Is it still hurting?” She put a hand over his own.

The liberation of McTighe was only a few days ago, perhaps a week, and it had been on Eight’s mind, enough that even the other students had noticed, and even Arecia had noticed, but Eight never said anything, and now he went especially quiet. She put her hand on the back of his head, and ran it through his windswept hair.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

He let out a careful sigh, but offered a weak smile, and so she returned it.

The moment passed in silence. Eight shut his eyes, facing up towards the sky, and he let out a long wistful sigh. He pulled his blanket together over his shoulders, and turned to look at Arecia.

He opened his mouth, then immediately shut it. His hands eventually came together, and he started wringing them. They were still bruised, but most of the bleeding knuckles and broken fingernails had healed up. He bit his lip, looking down at his hands, and Arecia knew that meant he wanted to ask for something, but was too nervous to do so.

“What is it, Eight?” Arecia asked.

“Um… Nothing.” Eight replied.

“Tell me.” Arecia spoke carefully, and folded her hands in her lap, she tried to be patient. After all, she wasn’t one to immediately give up, she wanted this to work. “You can tell your mother.”

He shifted, carefully scratching his face, looking down at himself. His pause only grew longer and he felt nervous finally asking. “Um… can you lay down with me?”

Arecia was not exactly a tactile and affectionate type, even if she had adopted the class as her own, she didn’t spend all her time taking care of them. They were students, but cadets all the same, and they had to be serious about their work. And yet, despite that, Eight seemed so careful and unobtrusive, she felt no urge to reject him, even if she herself didn’t actually care to do so. Her decision makes itself when she shifted in her seat, saying. “Very well.”

Eight immediately leaned on her shoulder, putting all his weight on her, practically, and she smiled a bit, and hoisted him up, and pulled him over to her. He pulled his blanket over himself, and rested his head on her chest, under her chin, curling himself up a bit. Arecia carefully put her hands around his sides, hugging a blanketed mass of Eight, and pulled him back, pulling herself up against the back of the chaise lounge, and leaned back. He hid his face against her, so she laid flat on her back, and her eyes were fixed on the headstones of the cemetery. It’s so quiet. The wind rustles the trees and leaves fall on the headstones in the field.

Something else is on his mind. Arecia decides she wont probe at it anymore, but it was enough to bring him here, in the quietest part of the Akademia. Her hand moves on its own, carefully finding the area between his shoulder blades, and rubbing up and down slowly. She feels him shift, something about holding him this way, makes him feel so small – not that she would ever say so to him.

“… Eight… what’s wrong?” She asked under her breath, head tilted to look down at Eight.

Eight kept his head resting on her for a while, he glanced out at the headstones and then down at himself.

“I’m sorry…” He murmured again. “I didn’t mean… to bother everyone…”

“We just want to know what’s wrong, dear.” Arecia replied.

“…” Eight looked down at his hands, and folded them under the blanket again. “… Is it always going to be like that? Like McTighe?” His words don’t really say anything, so Arecia stays quiet in the hope he will explain. “I keep… I…” He stuttered through his words. “I keep thinking… about all the people… I think… something’s wrong with me.” He huddled closer. “I keep thinking about the people I killed… everyone else said… they don’t remember it very much but… I… I feel like I killed a lot of people. I can remember… but everyone else said it felt like a blur, like… there was barely any Imperials there at all. But I… I remember so many of them” His hands are playing with the bandages that cover his knuckles, fingers pulling at the small square patch. “I can’t stop thinking about their faces… what it looked like when they died…”

Arecia pressed her lips together, her face actually a bit hard to read, and her shoulders jerking a bit. She tried to hold back, she had to admit, but almost instinctively, she laughed. Eight pulled his head back, looking at her, and his eyebrows furrowed, his face was somewhat frustrated, at first upset to hear laughter, and then embarrassed that he had shared that. His thoughts had been so intimate and private, but it seemed like maybe it would be all right to share with his mother – but he was wrong, his cheeks were pink.

“Oh…” Arecia is shaking her head at Eight, but her hand reaches out to his, her laughter stops immediately.  “Oh, Eight… don’t you realize…? If you remember killing them, that means they _didn’t_ die.”

Eight blinked, and then opened his eyes really wide like he’d finally figured something out. His paleness almost seemed to go away – she realized his face flushed red from embarrassment, only for him to suddenly go pallid again, and he lowered his head. “I… Oh…” He looked down. His expressions had to calm down a bit, but he’s still very clearly deeply embarrassed by his whole situation. “That’s… that’s even worse isn’t it?”

Arecia made a face, and tilted her head. “McTighe is under Rubrum rule again… it’s all thanks to Class Zero. If your contribution managed to be with minimal causalities, I think we can consider that a success.” She could see the distress he had, hadn’t been totally wiped away, instead it seemed to replace itself with new worries.

“Do you remember what we talked about when I first brought you here?” She asked. “You told me weapons make people numb to killing. You especially said you hated guns, you didn’t have to feel anything when you killed – that it was trivializing life itself… but when you fight, you might have to kill, you might have to take a life, and doing it with your hands… it’s difficult.”

Eight nodded. Perhaps it wasn’t until now that he finally realized that, and yet he still couldn’t shake that feeling. Knowing that the people he could’ve killed – well, he remember so many of them, and that meant he had let them live, even if he subdued them, or choked them, or made them go limp. It seemed like nobody else remember killing Imperials, so did that mean they all succeeded? Did that mean he hadn’t? His stomach twists now with even more unsureness.

“Do you remember what I asked you?”

He did. Eight nodded. Only now he understood what she meant. He shut his eyes, and nodded even more. “… I remember.” He concluded. The words stuck in his mind. A simple question, the question of the practicality of only using his hands, of divorcing what he believed was the act of downplaying what it meant to take a life. She countered him, asked him to think that through. She asked him a question. He remembered.

_Isn't it scarier to kill with only your bare hands?_

Eight was starting to know the answer.

The answer was yes.

Yes it is.

The revelation is taken in silence. Eight looks down at his broken hands, still bruised from the work he put them through, and aching from the struggle he endured. Arecia can sense him, falling deeper into that place, and some nervous questioned wormed its way into her brain. “Do you not want to fight anymore, Eight?’

Eight snapped out of his trance, and shook his head immediately. “No.” He assured her. His voice is unconvincing, so he stresses. “No… I… I want to be here.”

Arecia noticed that didn’t really answer her question, but was honest to something, being in Class Zero was going to require fighting, and if he wanted to stay, he’d have to do that. He wasn’t really answering if he wanted to fight, most likely, he didn’t, but he answered the more terrifying question; are you willing to be abandoned by your friends, and your own mother, just so you don’t have to fight? Of course not. Hardly anyone could answer yes.

Eight looked down at himself. “… A lot of people died in McTighe.” Eight remarked. “But I remember so many people… and so many things… I guess I didn’t contribute much…”

“You contributed enough.” Arecia remarked. “If Rubrum can take back the country with as little death as possible, surely we will be better for it. We need people like you, Eight.” She said so in earnest. She really did mean that.

A long pause. Eight’s eyes are clouded like they have been earlier. He wants to believe her, but his brain is still addled from everything that was going on. He was scared. She could see that in him. Despite that, he looked her in the eyes, expression turning to something fiercer. “I won’t let you down.” He assured her. His confidence gave her a slight smile.

“I know. You never let me down yet.” She returned. Even in his warmth and assurance, she can tell there is something still on his mind, or perhaps he’s simply ruminating on what she has already told him. There is a lot to think about – especially when you can remember those things.

Part of her wondered if Eight had held himself back, in the end she couldn’t conclude to simply thinking Eight wasn’t strong enough – it wasn’t true. He was certainly strong enough in body, and even in spirit, but his mind was a distracted and curious thing. He was thoughtful, and careful, most likely, that had effected the way he fights. Enough that a thought did occur to her, what ever did happen to Eight, to make him believe that something like weapons could trivialize the taking of lives? What in his life made the prospect of death anything but trivial? Why did he ascribe worth to death?

In the end, that pondering caused her to gaze out into the graveyard that the two of them were laying in. Only a few feet away from the very Classroom they took their lessons and orders from. Perhaps in the end, it was even expected of them, to not take it seriously, but some of them had been shifting in their thoughts.

His body language was still so open and vulnerable with her, he was slow to pull himself close, these memories were taking a toll worse than any other cadet. His tenseness had begun to fade the longer she held him. Her hand cradled the back of his head, fingers running through his short brown hair. He sighed through his nose, head against her chest. For a long time, she stayed like that, watching the wind shake the trees of the cemetery. Perhaps she overthought this. It was just a nice place to sit, not necessarily a place for Eight to ruminate on death. What was there to think about? Her hand is automatic, slowly and carefully petting back the strands of hair.

Her curiosity has gotten the better of her, and carefully she lifts her gaze, taking her chin away from the top of his head. “Eight?” She asked.

No response. She tilted her head down, seeing the cadet had completely relaxed in her grip. Completely open. She supposed she wouldn’t have to ask her question anymore, she’d be able to wait, and see for herself.

There are scant noises in the cemetery. Wind rustling the trees, an occasional bird whistles, she heard unusual footfall, but it was a stray cat around the edge of the fenceline. It pounced around at the birds before chasing one outside the enclosure, and soon the place was silent again. A few of the Class Zero students were in the garden, and had careful glances at the unusual sight of Arecia holding Eight on a chase lounge in the cemetery, but she smiled at them, and noticed most glances were ones of worry – it seemed all of them were concerned he was truly ill. Indeed, she was worried too.

In pure silence and stillness, every little motion is noticeable. Eight rests on her, hours have passed, and the sunset is lining the bottom of the clouds with golden lines, the sky becoming lighter and lighter blue before fading to orange and red hues. His eyebrows furrowed, his jaw tightens, his face seems to scowl. Breathing is a ragged thing for him, and it hitches in his throat and is starting to spread, from his face to his whole body.

His shoulders jolt, and pull inward, to himself, his hands, wrapped in the blankets, clutch tightly, turning into fists. He balls his fists so hard his knuckles turn white.  His legs pull close, his toes twitching, his muscles tense. Arecia watched his whole body language change, from limp and peaceful, to combatant and ready. Her hand continues to go through his hair, although he does not react to that at all. How unfortunate, Arecia thought, a soldier who could not stop fighting, even in his dreams.

Eight’s face turns red and eventually tinging purple, his hand comes to his neck, and finally his eyes open with a gasp. It’s sharp and sudden, like a swimmer coming up for air after a long dive. His body tenses, and shudders, and suddenly she feels him shaking. Then he jolts out of her arms, and rubs his eyes.

“Did I fall asleep?” He asked in a dizzy voice. “I’m sorry… I didn’t… that’s so rude…”

“It’s all right.” She assured him. “You are tired aren’t you?” That was what was really bothering him, what had turned him lethargic and slow was so simple she could laugh – he was exhausted, why else would he look sick with exhaustion? “If you are tired, you need to get your rest.”

“You’re right…” Eight nodded his head.

“You had a nightmare.” Arecia added. “That makes it hard to sleep.”

Eight nodded his head shyly that time. He seemed to be embarrassed about that.

“What was it about?”

Eight’s brow eyes gazed up at her sadly, and he slid back to sit up on his own. “I don’t remember…” He murmured. His voice is so quiet that even as close as they are, Arecia strains to hear him. “It’s the only time I wish I _could_ remember… because… I want to understand it.”

“Dreams are strange things. It’s hard to make sense of them.” Arecia replied.

“…I feel like I’m choking… and then it feels like burning, and then I fall – and then I wake up.”

“This has happened multiple times?”

Eight nodded. “I…” He pressed his lips thin. “I almost fell asleep in class. I’ve even fallen asleep while Jack was talking to me… and that’s not an easy task.” His small joke is met with some amusement, but Arecia is more concerned to learn this. “…I didn’t want Kurasame to be mad at me.”

“So you skipped.”

He nodded his head. “…I made him upset anyway… didn’t I?”

“He was only concerned about you. As are we all. Nightmares are hard to live with.” Arecia held Eight close. “I’ll tell you what… I’ll take you to your dorm, and I want you to make yourself as comfortable as possible – I’m sure the class is worried about you too. You get something to eat, something to drink, and then I want you to wait, all right?” Arecia thought it through. “Until… about an hour before midnight, then I want you to try to sleep, okay?”

Eight seemed a bit hesitant, and she knew that meant he’d been staying up all night as well, probably sleepless for a good while. He doesn’t even offer any resistance after that initial hesitation, he bows his head and nods in agreement. “Yes mom.” He’s willing to put up with a nightmare again, simply because she said so.

“All right, let’s go.” Arecia put her arm under the bend of his knee, and hoisted him up. Eight’s eyes widened.

“I, I can walk…” He murmured.

“Indeed.” Arecia replied. “I can carry you as well. It’s a mother’s instinct to care for her children, isn’t it?”

Eight folded the blanket over himself, and gave a small nod. It was almost embarrassing, but he supposed it wasn’t so bad. In earnest, he liked being held, and, shamefully, he had to admit being carried felt nice, even if it made him feel painfully aware of how small he was compared to every other cadet. He can put aside his embarrassment to at least appreciate being in her arms.

There were some glances towards the unusual sight of Arecia carrying a Class Zero member in her arms, but all the same it was nothing to warrant a lot of attention. She stepped across the threshold with light coming in through the windows, Eight shielded his eyes from it, his eyes had been hurting from the lack of sleep. Since the night was approaching, most of the cadets were at the lounge, having finished eating dinner. A few of the classmates approached Eight, only looking concerned and worried about their peer.

Arecia set Eight down upon a couch near a coffee table, and pulled the blanket over him. The other students of Class Zero had brought him things, although dinner hours were over, they had seemed to try and put something together for Eight; as quiet as he was, his presence was obviously gone, and missed.

Sice had tried her had at making soup – Eight could tell she made it, there was too much salt, and some burnt pieces, but it at least wasn’t bland – although it was scalding hot and he had to let it sit for a bit. A bit of toast, a fruit cup with canned peaches, hot custard (also a little overcooked – and likely a Sice creation) and a tall glass of water. Deuce felt his head again, trying to figure out if he had a fever break yet. Cinque approached with a bundle of homemade cards, hoping they would cheer him up, Eight held them close with one hand, Cinque had gotten the usual suspects to make cards, like Deuce and Cater, but even Machina and Ace – Eight imagined she had to twist their arm for _that_ to happen. Still, he takes them with a grateful smile, even if he still feels off, he at least feels different.

After the soup cools, Eight has his fill on food, as much as he can stomach, which was mostly the fruit cup, but he tried to eat the custard and soup, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Sice’s feelings.

The others have basically started to sit around him, so Eight shifted, trying to give them room, although they were all just worried about his health to actually try and intrude.

“Did you find out what was making you ill?” The question came from Rem, which he didn’t expect, but all the same he answered her question.

“I… think so.” He hesitated, well, in reality, he always knew, but talking to Arecia put some things into perspective for him.

“Are you going to get better?” Cinque asked.

“I will.” Eight sounded very sure of himself.

“What did mom say?” Cater piped up.

Eight shrugged. “I should try to eat and then… wait to sleep until an hour before midnight.”

“Why then?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Did mom figure out what made you so sick?” Cinque asked, her hand reached out to feel his forehead again. Eight nodded, so she questioned again. “Well, what is it?”

Eight pulled his spoon through the broth of the soup the Sice had made. For a good long while, he stared into it, catching a murky golden reflection of himself and the ceiling above. His eyebrows furrowed. He pressed his lips, and a slow but careful realization began to hit him.

“I don’t… really… remember…”

* * *

 

By the time Arecia was ready to go out it was night, the sun had disappeared, and indigo black sky filled in the firmament, and the place was littered with starlight. She had a coat on, and a purple scarf that covered half her face, her hair was tied up and back, beside her was Kurasame, who stood there, also with his face half-covered, and his eyebrows knit, looking over her curiously.

“I intended for this to be taken care of by Class Zero, eventually… the Mayor was starting to figure out just exactly where all these Imperial militia was still hiding… Isn’t this beneath the calling of a Consortium member? Especially one of the Sorcery division…”

“Do you expect _Higato_ to do this?” Arecia challenged, tucking the scarf under her hair. Kurasame could swear he saw the glint of a small blade in her coat pocket, but he did not dare pry. Arecia did not seem at all interested in being talked out of this, but even questioning her decisions, she instead turned her cold and serious eyes on Kurasame, and put a hand on his shoulder, telling him this:

“This is not the calling of the consortium – this is the calling of a mother to her child.”

Kurasame didn’t bother asking what that was supposed to mean. It wouldn’t matter if he did ask, she jerked the reigns of the chocobo, and trotted off into the night, her purple scarf fluttering around behind her.

* * *

 

As Eight slowly polished off his meal that he felt was far too big, he was starting to feel better and better.

“Did it have something to do with the fight?” Ace brought up.

Eight shook his head. “No… I don’t think so.”

“You said earlier that it did.” Ace remarked.

“I… Well I thought it did but… I don’t remember why.” Eight admitted. “What happened in McTighe?”

“We liberated it from the Imperials.”

“I know but…” Eight shut his eyes, groaning. “Nevermind.”

“Do you need anything else?” Cinque asked. “Maybe something hot to drink? Like coffee?”

“Coffee will keep him awake, Cinque.” Sice retorted. “Beside, coffee makes you short, he needs all the help he can get.”

“Shut up.” Eight huffed, pulling the blanket up to his face to hide his embarrassed look.

“Maybe hot chocolate? I like hot chocolate.” Cinque remarked.

“You like anything, Cinque.” Eight interjected. She seemed to nod in agreement.

“You think we could make some?” Eight did want something hot to drink. “Ask the chef to make it… I’d like hot chocolate, not burnt chocolate.” He gave a telling glance at Sice.

“Shut up.” She gave him a swift kick in the heel of his foot.

The others laughed it off, although eventually Jack was nice enough to try and convince the kitchen to make cocoa. Eight had a large mug of it, sugary sweet, but warmed him deep to his bones. After that, he carried his blanket and get-well-soon cards into his dorm room, since lights out would be soon. He remembered Arecia’s words, waiting an hour after lights out, although in the dark, curled up in his blanket, he was nodding off, and he nervously sat there, fiddling with the bandages on his hands, waiting for something to happen.

The hour rolled around, one hour before midnight, and carefully Eight set his boots aside, laid his morning clothes out, and set his head down on the pillow. His nerves had been rattling him, but he sighed, carefully, and began to wonder what exactly he talked to Arecia about – his remarks to Class Zero had been the truth, he honestly didn’t remember what made him feel so ill. Instead of dwell on it any longer, he obeyed his mother, and pulled the blanket over himself, eyes glancing out the window to the moonlight, and soon he drifted off to sleep, relaxing as he had not done so in so long.

A long night, and not a single nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you think Arecia picks favorites? Because I would. And it would probably be Eight. I feel like Eight kills the least in terms of actual deadliness of his weapons, but then I remember Ace is throwing his a bunch of cards at people until they die. So maybe it’s actually Ace…
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed, I haven't written a fluff piece in a long time.


End file.
